


Equinox

by bree_black



Category: Supernatural, Twilight (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angels, High School, Inspired by a Movie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bree_black/pseuds/bree_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When seventeen year-old Dean Winchester’s father leaves him and his kid brother Sam in Forks, a small, perpetually rainy town in Washington, while he’s busy hunting werewolves, it could have been the most boring few weeks of his life. But once he meets the mysterious Castiel Nevaeh, Dean’s life takes a sexy and scary turn. Up until now, Castiel has managed to keep his angel identity a secret in the small community, but now nobody is safe, especially Dean, an integral part of Heaven’s plan. Dean and Castiel find themselves balanced precariously on the point of a knife-between desire and danger, and on the brink of the Apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equinox

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN-Cinema challenge, using _Twilight_ as prompt and inspiration for _Supernatural_ fic.
> 
> Fair warning: This was a bit of an experimental project; I wanted to see what would happen if I tried to stay as true to both canons as possible. I'd estimate about half the dialogue in this story is from the Twilight film, slightly altered, re-contextualized or radically re-purposed. The summary is an altered version of the Twilight book jacket. For this reason I consider this as much a piece of Twilight fan fic as Supernatural.

“I could help,” Dean says from the passenger seat, resisting the urge to whine a little. “I _could_.” He ignores the way Sam is kicking the back of his seat, though it’s really starting to bug him. Kid’s been doing it all day, and he’s not tall enough yet that he can’t help it, so that’s no excuse.

His dad’s sigh is barely audible over the soothing rumble of the Impala’s engine, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he answers. “You could, but I need you to watch your brother.” There’s a warning in his voice.

That’s bullshit and Dean knows it. If Dad wanted him on the hunt they could easily drop Sam off with Caleb or Uncle Bobby for a couple of weeks, no problem. He wants Dean out of the way and Sam is just his scapegoat. As if Dean can’t handle a couple of werewolves.

“Is that it?” Sam asks, his voice quiet and tight like it always gets when there’s an argument brewing. He’s trying to change the subject. His has his nose pressed against the backseat window, practically salivating at the sight of the local high school, which looks to Dean exactly like all the others except that it’s surrounded by more trees.

“I expect so,” John says, happy because Sam sounds so happy. So proud of his little genius. “Dean’ll enrol you both first thing tomorrow.”

Dean bites back his objections. Sam’s got the book smarts in the family, he accepts that, and he just wants to spend his time doing what he’s good at. Namely, blasting the hell out of monsters. But Dad’s decided he wants to face this one alone, says Dean’s not ready to take on an entire pack of werewolves. 

He’s ditching them in Forks, Washington – population 3,120 people - and Dean hates it here already. The forest is dense around the town and everything is _green_ and it’s not like Dean has anything against the colour, it’s just that he feels closed in here, claustrophobic, like something evil could be lurking behind every tree or bush. Dean prefers the blue skies, yellow sands and bright sunshine of the open road. Forks seems to live under a near-constant cover of clouds and rain.

Dad pulls up in front of a white bungalow that’s seen better days. It’s still one of the nicer places they’ve stayed, easily big enough that Sam and Dean can each have their own room. The oak trees choking the unkempt front lawn, though, dwarf the house. Their branches seem to reach out toward the house’s windows, like dark skeletal fingers.

Dad lets the engine run for a moment. Dean closes his eyes and cherishes the rumble; on his less charitable days, he thinks he’ll miss this car more than he’ll miss his father.

They unpack the car. It only takes one trip; he and Sam have learned to travel light, and when they’ve each dropped their duffel bag of stuff onto the center of a dusty double bed, the rooms still look laughably empty. Dean gives Sam the room with the big oak bookcase. He can’t fill it with his own books, of course, but he’ll drag home piles from the library. Dean takes the smaller room right next to Sam’s, which leaves the master for Dad, not that he’ll be using it for long. Dean supposes he could move in there once Dad ships out, but he doesn’t think he will. This town makes him feel uneasy, and it will help to keep Sam nearby.

A loud honk from outside makes Dean jump, and he goes to the window, ignoring the grasping fingers of the trees outside. There are two men climbing out of a beat-up red truck in the driveway. Hunters, judging by the military-style clothing, their shoulder holsters, and, of course, the wheelchair one of them is using. That’ll be the guy who called in Dad for backup; Dean knows an injury doesn’t put you out of the hunting game, it just means you work from the sidelines.

Sam is already running down the driveway like a little kid, so Dean follows him outside.

“Dean, you remember Billy Jackson,” Dad says, as the hunter in the wheelchair offers his hand.

Dean shakes it. “Yeah,” he lies. “You’re looking good.” Dean doesn’t remember the man at all; he’d been thirteen the last time they’d been out this way.

“Still dancing,” he says with a smile, cheerful bravado of a man who’d chosen to be a hunter instead of being forced into it by death and grief. Dean categorizes hunters into two types: those who take the job because it’s the right thing to do and those who take the job because it’s the only thing they _can_ do. Billy Jackson is the first type and Dean likes him immediately. John Winchester is the other.

“Glad you’re finally here,” Billy says, turning back to Dad. There’s a new urgency in his voice, an indication that small talk is nearly over and it’s time to get down to business. The other hunter pulls a thick folder out of the passenger side of the truck, and the three men huddle around it together, shutting out Dean and Sam.

Sam, of course, doesn’t seem to mind. He scrambles up on the truck bed, sitting cross-legged in the centre. “This is a cool truck, eh, Dean?”

“Sure,” Dean says, but he’s not paying much attention, eyes drifting over to where the hunters have spread a large folding map over the hood of the Impala. Dad seems to feel Dean’s gaze, because he wanders over to them again.

“So?” he says, slapping the side of the truck, “what do you think?”

“What?” Dean says blankly.

“Of your birthday present.” Dean had turned eighteen five months ago.

“This?” Dean says, shell-shocked. 

Dad nods. “Just bought it off Billy here.”

It’s a crappy truck, nothing like the Impala, but it’s _his_ so Dean loves it immediately. 

“Oh my god,” he says, resisting the urge to scramble into the back with Sam. He climbs into the driver’s seat instead, and lets Billy and his friend give him the rundown on the truck’s eccentricities. The steering wheel feels perfect in his hands.

“Okay,” Dad says, as Sam hops up into the cab next to Dean. He slaps the side of the truck again, “okay.”

 

Dad is gone two days later, and Dean drives himself and Sam to school in the red truck. The truck backfires as they pull into the parking lot of the town’s only public school, and all the kids look up at them suspiciously. It’s March, middle of the semester, so they’ll stick out like sore thumbs, but they’re pretty used to that.

“Bye Dean!” Sam shouts cheerfully, swinging his battered bookbag over his shoulder. He heads directly to the front door, probably hoping to locate the library before first period starts.

Dean follows more slowly. “Nice ride,” some guy says as he passes, and Dean isn’t sure if he means it as a compliment or an insult.

“Thanks,” he says, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He likes to blend in on his first day, learn the lay of the land before he really interacts with anyone.

“You’re Dean Winchester, the new guy,” someone says from behind him. Dean looks up from his class schedule, blinking at the blond guy in the dirty denim jacket standing in front of him. “I’m Ash, the eyes and ears of this place. Need a tour? Shoulder to cry on?”

_No_ , Dean thinks, but he doesn’t want to make an enemy in his first five minutes. “I’m really more the suffer in silence type,” he says truthfully.

But telling the truth never works, and Ash takes an unwilling Dean under his wing, staying by his side through gym class - where Dean smacks some poor girl in the head with a volleyball - and dragging him to a practically full cafeteria table at lunch. 

Dean would rather sit with Sam, but when he scans the room for his brother he finds him sitting at a crowded table with a bunch of kids his own age. Sam is talking animatedly, with lots of hand gestures, and he seems to be fitting in already. Dean doesn’t want to get in the way.

Ash’s friends are loud, and seem really young. The girls, Jo and Lisa, roll their eyes when the guys toss French fries across the table at each other, but bask in the attention when conversation turns to who’s taking who to an upcoming dance. Dean’s only half paying attention, but so far it seems like every single other high school he’s ever attended, right up to the usual gossip about which members of the swim team are padding their Speedos.

Dean is struggling to look interested in gossip about people he’s never met when a group of kids entering the cafeteria catches his eye. Actually, calling them kids doesn’t seem quite right. They seem older than everyone else in the room, though he can’t quite pinpoint why, and they’re definitely better dressed.

For some reason Dean can’t take his eyes off the group of five teenagers, walking in like they own the place.

“Who’re they?” Dean asks, interrupting whatever Jo had been giggling about.

“Oh,” Lisa says, and rolls her eyes. “The Nevaehs.” 

“They’re uh, Dr. and Mrs. Nevaeh’s foster kids,” Jo says, picking up the thread of the conversation. “They moved down here from Alaska like, a few years ago.”

“They kind of keep to themselves,” Lisa says, voice tinged with pity.

“Yeah,” Jo interrupts. “’Cause they’re all together. Like, _together_ together. The blonde girl? That’s Rachel, and the tall British guy is Balthazar. They’re like a thing. I’m not even sure that’s legal.”

“Jo, they’re not actually related,” Lisa interrupts, defending them.

“Yeah but they live together! It’s weird,” Jo continues. She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is listening. “And the redhead’s Anna, she’s really weird. She’s with Uriel, the black guy who looks like he’s in pain.”

Dean glances over, and the guy does look uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His girlfriend is practically dragging him across the cafeteria to the sole empty table in the crowded room.

Trailing behind them is another guy with dark hair and bright blue eyes. “Who’s he?” Dean asks, and the question comes out sort of breathless.

Jo grins, and Lisa looks down at her bologna sandwich. “That’s Castiel. He’s totally gorgeous, _obviously_ , but apparently nobody here’s good enough for him.” She doesn’t do much to hide the bitterness in her voice, less understanding now.

Across the room, Castiel smiles, but he can’t possibly have heard Jo’s comment over the din in the room. Dean drops his gaze, suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s been staring. There’s something off about the entire family, but especially Castiel.

Dean sneaks one more glance, and this time the dude is staring right back at him, and he looks kind of pissed. The hair on Dean’s arms stands on end at the accidental eye contact. Dean looks away quickly, biting his lip and – for some reason – trying not to blush. Dean had sort of expected his first day at Forks High to be just another link in a long chain of nearly identical first days, but Castiel Nevaeh has definitely made an impression.

 

The last period of the day is biology, not exactly Dean’s speciality, except when he gets to dissect something. Still, by the time Ash introduces him to the teacher, Mr. Molina, Dean’s almost managed to settle back into his usual first day routine. That is, until he realizes the only free seat in the classroom is next to the weird guy from lunch.

As Dean moves closer, an expression of confusion and then of distaste passes over Castiel’s face. Though he tells himself he doesn’t care what anyone at this school thinks of him – he’ll probably be gone before semester’s end – it makes him feel unusually self-conscious. Dean wonders if he smells bad, like maybe he stepped on dog shit on his way to the science wing or something.

He takes the stool next to Castiel. There are some worm things on slides in front of them, and, without speaking, Castiel pushes one across the desk to Dean, not even looking at him. He taps his foot anxiously against the desk.

Dean probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the class at the best of times, but it’s especially difficult to focus today. The guy keeps shooting him desperate, resentful glances when he thinks Dean isn’t looking. Once, Dean even thinks he sees his eyes flash white, and he’s pretty sure it’s a relief for both of them when the bell rings and Castiel bolts out of the class.

Dean hopes maybe the guy just had a bad case of food poisoning or something, but when he stops by the main office on his way out to make himself Sam’s emergency contact, Castiel is there too, trying to switch into any class but biology.

The whole thing is suspicious, and Dean’s got the instincts of a hunter. He’s not going to be able to let this one go.

 

He and Sam eat dinner at the local diner every night those first few days. Eventually, when the money Dad’s left for them starts to run out, Dean will start in on the mac n’ cheese and canned veggies, but for the moment he feels flush with it, and a little drunk on independence. He’d rather be on Dad’s hunt, of course, but he likes it okay when it’s just him and Sam, likes the way Sam chatters incessantly about whatever he’s been learning in history class instead of going quiet and anxious like whenever they eat with Dad. Dean springs for a piece of bumbleberry pie for each of them and leaves a generous tip for the waitress because she gives Sam extra whipped cream.

Every second night or so Dad calls the house to check in, but there’s never much to say since they haven’t made any progress tracking the wolf pack yet. He asks how school is going but never really listens to Dean’s answers. It’s a routine for them both, acting like they’re a normal family, and Dean is actually sort of relieved when Dad’s quarter runs out and they hang up.

Dean sort of planned to confront Castiel, to demand to know what his problem was, but the guy never shows to biology class – or school at all – for days, even though the rest of his creepy family all make it in their fancy clothes, driving their overpriced cars. Dean sits with Ash, Jo, Lisa and their friends at lunch, but more than once he thinks he feels someone watching him, and looks over to see one of Castiel’s siblings staring at him appraisingly. He knows hunting has made him a touch paranoid, but Dean doesn’t think this is all in his head, especially when he remembers the weird white light he thought he’d seen in Castiel`s eyes during biology class. Things are getting a little…strange.

 

A few days later, the local police start talking about a mysterious death in the neighbouring town, some factory worker found dead with weeks-old stab wounds and bruises all over his body. Only problem is, he’d been working the assembly line the day before, no sign of anything wrong. It’s not conclusive or something he wants to bring up with Dad yet, but it’s enough that Dean has Sam keep a closer ear on their hacked police frequency, and also carry a silver knife, a sachet of salt and a canteen of holy water in his bookbag.

But the big news at Forks High isn’t the suspicious – and, quite frankly fascinating – death right next door, but the upcoming prom.

“Hey, um, listen, I was wondering, did you have a date to the –” Lisa asks after fourth period on Monday, but before Dean can find a way to let her down easy, they’re in biology class, and Dean notices that the other side of his desk isn’t empty today.

Dean stalks over, kind of pissed, and makes a point of slamming his backpack down onto the desk. Castiel practically jumps off of his stool. Dean smirks and looks away, pretending to care about whatever Mr. Molina is writing on the chalkboard at the front of the room.

“Hello,” Dean’s mysterious lab partner says, his voice lower, but also much softer, than Dean had expected. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last week. I’m Castiel Nevaeh.” He says it like a question not a statement, like he’s walking on unsteady ground. Dean’s not exactly Mr. Personality, but this guy seems antisocial even to him. “You’re Dean?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean answers. There’s an intensity in Castiel’s gaze that makes Dean uncomfortable, like he’s hanging on Dean’s every word. Dean’s not used to people paying much attention to him when he talks – other than Sam, of course – and it’s a bit unnerving, makes him wonder if he’s really worth that much attention.

Dean jumps a little when Mr. Molina starts screaming about onions or something, and then the moment is broken and Castiel is staring down into their shared microscope. 

“You were gone,” Dean says, reminding himself that he’s supposed to be investigating this guy, not impressing him.

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “I was out of town for a couple of days. Personal reasons.”

Dean takes his turn with the microscope. He guesses one of the stages of mitosis Mr. Molina has scribbled on the board and Castiel agrees with him, so either it’s his lucky day or neither of them knows shit about biology.

“So are you enjoying the rain?” Castiel says, touch of a smile playing on his lips. The small talk comes out stilted and false, like they’re both pretending they don’t have more important things to talk about.

“You’re asking me about the weather?” Dean says, feeling mildly affronted.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Castiel answers, apparently determined to pretend there’s nothing weird going on.

Two can play that game. “Well,” Dean says, “I don’t really like the rain. Any cold, wet thing, I don’t really like.” Dean’s thinking about corpses, but he can’t say that out loud. “And I don’t like all the trees here. I wish it was flatter, and warmer, and sunnier.”

Castiel chuckles, though it sounds forced. “If you hate the cold and the rain so much, why’d you move to the wettest place in the continental United States?”

“It’s complicated,” Dean says. “You wouldn’t understand.” _And why do you care?”_ he adds internally.

“You might be surprised,” Castiel answers. His eyes are very blue, and looking into them makes Dean’s cheeks burn and his tongue feel heavy. “I’m sure I can keep up.”

Dean suddenly wants to tell him everything, more than he’s wanted to tell anyone before. He feels the pressure of a lifetime of secrets pushing out against his chest, and he swallows hard to keep them down. “My dad travels a lot for work,” he says sharply.

“So,” Castiel says. “You don’t approve of his work or…?”

Dean shakes his head, adamant. “No. His work’s really important. I just wish I could be helping him.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches then, like he’s anxious. He pulls the microscope back over to his side of the desk, and they get back to the stages of mitosis.

 

For some reason, Castiel walks with Dean to his locker after class.

“So Dad left me here with my baby brother while he finished up his…uh, contract,” Dean explains. Something about Castiel’s focused attention keeps him talking, brings him closer to telling someone the truth about his family than he’s ever come before.

“And now you’re unhappy?” Castiel asks.

“Not really,” Dean says. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s whining. “I mean, it’s kind of nice when it’s just Sam and me for awhile.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “I’m just trying to figure you out. You’re very difficult for me to read.”

“Hey, do you wear contacts?” Dean asks, seizing his opportunity during one of their many awkward pauses.

“No,” Castiel says quickly. Too quickly.

“It’s just that your eyes are really blue, but I could swear they used to be lighter or something.” Dean plays dumb, like he isn’t mentally cataloguing all the monsters he knows whose eyes change colour.

“Yes, I know,” Castiel says, squinting. “It’s the…fluorescents.” And then he turns suddenly and walks away, without even saying goodbye.

Which pretty much confirms Dean’s right about there being something shady going on. But instead of being excited by a potential solo hunt, Dean is mostly disappointed. He’d sort of liked Castiel’s attention.

 

In the school’s parking lot half an hour later, Dean avoids meeting Castiel’s eye across the yard, leaning against his truck while he waits for Sam to say goodbye to his friends. He wonders if they can afford to go to the diner again tonight, or if he should make a trip to the grocery store`instead. He swings off his backpack and leans it against the truck, unzipping an inner pocket to count the wad of cash rolled up inside.

If he wasn’t distracted, if his back wasn’t turned, maybe he would have seen the van coming. Instead, by the time he registers the sound of squealing brakes trying in vain to find traction on ice-coated asphalt, the van is just feet away, no time to get to safety.

Stupidly, Dean’s only thought as thousands of pounds of steel hurtle toward him is “Who will drive Sam home from school now?” He falls to his knees and covers his head.

And then Castiel is there, crouched down in front of him on the pavement, guarding Dean’s body with his own. He holds out one hand as if to brace them, and then the van _bounces off his hand_ , leaving a perfect imprint in the driver side door. Castiel doesn’t even wince.

They stare at each other for several long moments, Dean’s ears still ringing from the sound of crunching metal. There’s no question in Dean’s mind that Castiel is some kind of creature, now, the question is why on earth is he protecting Dean?

Castiel springs to his feet, and dashes away to his group of disapproving siblings. A pack of concerned students surrounds Dean, but he only has eyes for Castiel.

 

Sam makes him go to the hospital. Normally Dean would refuse, but Sam had been walking back from the playground when the accident happened and had seen the whole thing. Kid’s pretty shaken up about it, so Dean lets the doctor check him over, to get him to relax.

“Sorry, Dean. I tried to stop,” says the guy who’d been driving the van, sitting on the next hospital bed over. It’s the fourteenth time he’s apologized, and Dean feels a little guilty, considering he can’t even remember the guy’s name. 

“It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“No,” Sam says, using the tight, worried voice Dean hates. “It sure as hell is not okay!” He’s very pale, and his hands are curled into miniature fists.

“Sammy,” Dean says. “It’s okay.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I’ve had so much worse, buddy.”

Sam lowers his voice in return. “Yeah, it would have been so much worse if Castiel hadn’t been there to knock you out of the way. He got to you so fast even though he was nowhere near you. Sounds like you were really _lucky_.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean hisses. “I take your point.”

“When were you gonna tell me you were working a case?” Sam whispers accusingly.

“I wasn’t sure there was a case to work until just now!” Dean snaps, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone’s heard. “Now will you give me a break, I could have brain trauma.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “How would they even be able to tell, with you?”

Dean cuffs Sam lightly on the back of the head, glad to see him cracking jokes. “Am I all good, doc?”

The doctor, an old man with thick spectacles and an impressive mustache, nods, and Dean practically leaps off the crinkly hospital bed. He hates hospitals.

They’re one hallway from freedom when Dean hears a familiar low voice from around the corner. He grabs Sam’s arm and shoves him back against the wall, pressing his finger to his lips. Sam, like a pro, doesn’t make a sound.

“What was I supposed to do, let him die?” Castiel says. He sounds angry. Dean peeks carefully around the corner.

Castiel stands with one of his brothers and one of his sisters – Balthazar and Rachel? – arguing in badly suppressed voices.

“This isn’t just about you,” Rachel says, “It’s about all of us.”

Balthazar starts to interrupt, but then stops mid-sentence. Dean’s sure he hasn’t made a sound, that he’s not visible from around the corner and neither is Sam, but all three of them turn to look in his direction.

Trapped, Dean steps out from his hiding place. “Can I talk to you?” he asks innocently.

Castiel nods reluctantly, then leaves his siblings behind. Dean leans casually against the blue tiled hospital wall and Sam imitates his posture. They both stare at Castiel accusingly.

“What?” he says, looking especially unnerved by Sam’s presence.

“How did you get over to me so fast?” Dean says, figuring he might as well be straightforward. It’s not like Castiel’s going to attack him in public, in broad daylight, whatever he is.

“I was standing right next to you, Dean,” he says. There’s an authority in his voice that makes Dean desperately want to believe him. Maybe he’d been counting his cash longer than he’d thought? Maybe he did have a concussion and he’d just imagined the handprint in the side of the van.

“Bullshit,” Sam says, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. “You were next to your stupid car, across the lot.”

“No I wasn’t,” Castiel repeats, smiling at Sam condescendingly in a way that’s sure to just piss him off more.

“Yes you were,” Sam insists.

“I think you’re both confused,” Castiel says.

“I know what I saw!” Sam declares, raising his voice, and his certainty erases Dean’s doubt.

“And what was that?” Castiel asks.

“You stopped the van,” Dean says, jumping to his brother’s defense. “You pushed it away with your hand.”

Castiel’s gaze drops, and he suddenly resembles a kicked puppy. “Well no one will believe you,” he says.

And even though Dean knows he’s talking to a monster, he feels guilty. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” he says quickly.

“You weren’t?” Sam asks. Dean ignores him.

“I just need to know the truth,” Dean says, and it sounds uncomfortably like begging.

“Can’t you just thank me and get over it?” Castiel snaps, his voice so deep Dean thinks he can feel it rumbling through his own body. He stares into Dean’s face.

“Thank you,” he snaps back. He raises his chin and meets Castiel’s gaze, staring back unblinkingly.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Castiel says.

“No,” Dean says, defiant.

“Well then I hope you enjoy disappointment,” Castiel answers, turning and walking away without saying goodbye. He seems to do that a lot.

Dean sighs and rests his head against the wall.

“You weren’t going to tell anyone?” Sam repeats, a little shrill.

“You don’t count,” Dean says, pushing off from the wall and heading for the exit. Sam scrambles to catch up behind him.

That night, Dean dreams he sees Castiel in his bedroom, watching him while he sleeps. And though he’d promised to be honest, there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell Sam about _that_.

 

A few days later is the senior field trip to an organic farm or something, but Dean’s not exactly invested in the educational experience. Instead, he’s on a mission. He’s determined to gather information on Castiel, so that he can figure out _what_ he is. Super-strength, eyes that change colour and anti-social behaviour are surprisingly common features among monsters, and he hasn’t been able to narrow it down much yet.

Once he has some kind of theory, he’ll tell Dad. He just doesn’t want him to worry for no reason, or to think Dean is acting like a little kid and jumping at shadows.

Dean is mulling over the few clues he does have when Castiel arrives, flanked by Anna and Uriel. His siblings look pointedly away from Dean, but Castiel’s eyes find his immediately. Dean fiddles with the strap of his backpack.

“Look at you, huh?” Jo says, stepping into Dean’s line of vision. ‘You’re alive!”

Dean shakes his head to clear it, having trouble focusing after being caught in Castiel’s weirdly focused gaze.

“Oh yeah, false alarm I guess,” Dean says. He wonders how she would react if she had any idea just how many close calls Dean has had since he started hunting.

“So I was wondering,” Jo continues, “do you wanna go to prom with me?” She giggles as she says it, nervous.

Dean hasn’t really been paying attention to what anyone but Castiel thinks of him, but he’s not totally surprised by the attention. At the other schools girls have flirted with him too, attracted to his air of mystery and the way he takes such good care of his little brother. Usually, Dean would say yes, cough up a few bucks for a corsage, and hope to get laid after the dance.

This time he’s surprised to find he’s not interested. As he tries to find a way to let Jo down easy, Dean catches sight of Castiel over her shoulder, still staring at him. His face feels hot, even though he knows there’s no way Castiel can hear their conversation from across the lot.

“Oh, uh, prom,” Dean finally says. “Dancing. Not such a good idea for me. Uh, I have something that weekend anyway. We’re going to visit my dad that weekend.”

Dean tries not to look too closely at Jo’s face, and is profoundly relieved when Mr. Molina herds them all onto the yellow school bus. He pretends not to notice Anna elbowing Castiel in the ribs behind him in line, or the way the guy is very nearly smiling.

 

“Compost is cool!” Mr. Morani declares to the group of completely uninterested high schoolers, while Dean tries not to breathe too deeply in the hot, stifling air of the greenhouse.

Dean catches sight of Castiel’s beige coat up ahead, and moves to walk beside him.

“Where’s your dad? Where are you going to visit him?” Castiel asks, not bothering with a greeting.

“How did you know about that?” Dean responds.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Castiel counters, stumbling over his words slightly. 

Dean keeps his expression neutral, but he adds another trait to his mental list. What has weird eyes, super-strength, anti-social behaviour, and enhanced hearing?

“Well you don’t answer any of my questions,” Dean says. “So it seems fair. You don’t even say hi to me.”

“Hi,” Castiel deadpans, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Are you gonna tell me how you stopped the van?” he asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, adopting an academic tone. “I had an adrenaline rush. It’s very common, you can look it up.”

“Hawaii,” Dean says, frustrated. “My dad is doing the hula in Hawaii.” He trips on a tree root sticking out of the dirt floor, but before he can even stumble forward Castiel catches him by the arm and rights him.

“Can you at least watch where you walk?” he snaps. Dean has never had a monster express concern for his safety before.

“Look, I’m sorry I’m being rude all the time, I just think it’s the best way,” Castiel says, exasperated.

“The best way to what?” Dean asks, leaving the greenhouse and stalking back toward the bus. It feels good to be out in the open air.

“Dean,” Castiel says, hurrying to match Dean’s quickening strides, “we shouldn’t be friends.”

“You really should have figured that out a little earlier,” Dean snarls. “Why didn’t you just let the van crush me, and save yourself all this regret?” Dean’s working on a theory that whatever Castiel is likes to play with their food before they eat it. It’s the only explanation for Castiel paying so much attention to him.

“You think I regret saving you?” Castiel says. He looks shell-shocked.

“It’s pretty obvious,” Dean says. “I just don’t know why.” _Yet_.

“You don’t know anything,” Castiel says, and he seems almost disappointed in Dean. It’s oddly embarrassing.

“Hi!” Castiel’s redheaded sister says, popping up beside him out of nowhere. “Are you going to be riding with us?”

Dean reels a little, not sure if he wants deal with two mystery creatures simultaneously, but Castiel answers for him. “This bus is full.”

 

 

Of course the next day he’s singing a completely different tune, and Dean’s ready to add “mood swings” to his list of suspicious behaviours. Dean is busy avoiding the salad bar in the cafeteria, when Castiel walks over and places a blood red apple on his tray.

“What?” Dean says blankly.

“You should eat better,” Castiel says, gesturing to Dean’s cheeseburger and fries. “Get some vitamins.”

“Okay dude, what the fuck,” Dean says, dropping his voice. “You tell me we can’t be friends and now you’re concerned for my nutrition?”

“I only said it would be better if we weren’t friends, not that I didn’t want to be,” Castiel clarifies, standing way too close to Dean.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means if you were smart you’d stay away from me,” Castiel answers, and yeah, that’s a little ominous. But Castiel thinks Dean is just some high school kid, has no idea the things Dean’s seen.

“Okay,” he says, “but let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m not smart. Would you tell me the truth?” Dean tells himself he’d really like to get to the bottom of this, but the truth is he’s kind of enjoying the chase. He likes being the one in charge, having a case all his own.

“No, probably not,” Castiel says honestly, and a part of Dean is pleased that his job’s not done. “I’d rather hear your theories.”

That catches Dean off-guard. Does Castiel know he’s a hunter, or is he just looking for a high schooler’s idle speculation? He decides to play it cool.

“I’ve considered…radioactive spiders,” he says, keeping his tone light, “and kryptonite.” Nothing real, nothing that gives away what he’s really seen.

Castiel frowns deeply, maybe even looks disappointed. “Those are superheroes, right? But what if I’m not the hero – maybe I look like one, but what if I’m really the bad guy?”

“You’re not,” Dean says. 

A few days ago it would have been a lie, part of the act, to keep the mark from knowing Dean’s on to him. Now he’s not so sure. Castiel hasn’t done anything to hurt him – or anyone else, so far as Dean can tell – and he’s actually seemed…protective. Even saved Dean’s life. Dean’s got enough info now to let Dad in on the case, has had since Castiel stopped that van, but something in him has been hesitating.

“Listen,” he starts, “why don’t we just hang out? Have fun?”

Castiel cocks his head to one side. “Have fun,” he repeats thoughtfully. “It couldn’t hurt to try.”

“Great,” Dean says, taking a bite of the apple Castiel had deposited on his tray. He swallows, then brandishes the apple, “You happy now?”

“Surprisingly,” Castiel says, and Dean’s walks back to his usual table, trying to ignore the way he can feel Castiel’s eyes on his back.

 

“Hey, look at this!” Sam says, when Dean meets him by the bleachers after his gym period, the last of the day. He shoves a file of newspaper clippings in Dean’s face, even as they walk to the truck. “There are all these mysterious deaths around this area. Hunting accidents, suicides, disappearances. They’re pretty spread out and there’s not much of a pattern so I can see why no one else has picked up on it, but the weird stuff is way more concentrated around here than anywhere else in the state.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says.

“Are you even listening to me, Dean?” Sam says, his tone accusing, so Dean looks down at him, takes the file and flips through it a bit. 

“Good work, kiddo. Though I hope you’re not wasting class time on this.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not. I finished all my homework for the week last night, so I spent free period in the library, that’s all.”

Dean nods, satisfied. “Spaghetti tonight?”

Sam groans, but doesn’t complain too much. He knows as well as Dean does that money is tight. “But after dinner we’re gonna talk about this case. I’ve got more.”

Dean has barely rinsed the tomato sauce off their plates by the time Sam has covered the kitchen table in newspaper clippings, maps and books.

“Okay listen,” he says, taking a deep breath like he’s gearing up for a lecture. “Every few years or so the deaths around here increase. Lots of them are violent, like murders and hunting accidents and stuff. And then there are the weird ones, people suddenly dropping dead of months-old injuries when they’d been playing baseball the day before.”

“Like that guy one town over,” Dean jumps in.

“Right,” Sam says, pulling out the relevant news clipping. “That’s what got me started.”

“Some of it could be the werewolves,” Dean muses. “Though those are supposed to be recent. Curse, maybe?”

“Could be,” Sam says, using the tone that means he’s way ahead of Dean. “But get this. The deaths increase for a few months, but then everything suddenly goes back to normal. For years, decades even, until it all starts up again.”

“Hunters?” Dean said, “Coming in and wiping whatever it is out?”

“But what kind of hunter leaves a job unfinished? If it were a curse or a haunting or even a wolf pack, they’d make sure it was done for good before they left. Anyway, I don’t think Dad would have left us here if he’d heard of any trouble.”

Sam has a point. If hunters had a history here Dad would have heard about it from Billy, and he would’ve given Dean a heads up. “Okay, so something else then?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, really getting excited now. “It’s like an ecosystem or something. When the bad stuff increases something else shows up to keep it in check. Not wipe it out completely, just balance things out. Like nature.”

Sam is making a lot of logical leaps here – and Dean thinks he’s been studying a bit too much biology – but it’s as good a theory as any, and Dean doesn’t want to crush his excitement. “Okay, so we’re talking creatures then? Two kinds. Got any theories about either?”

Sam’s eyes light up, and he starts digging through his thickest pile. “So I mapped all the times when the mysterious deaths stopped, then checked the local papers to see what changed around that time. And at first I wasn’t turning up much, but then I found it.”

“Found what?”

“Kids,” Sam says. “Teenagers, really. Runaways looking for shelter, orphans come to be fostered, long-lost cousins. They all show up shortly after the deaths start, and leave a few months later when they come of age or whatever. By then the weird deaths have always tapered off.”

Dean’s stomach twists. He remembers the conversation in the cafeteria, when Castiel had warned him that he might _look_ like the hero, even if he’s actually the villain.

“And?” Dean says, swallowing hard.

Sam pulls a yellowed newspaper clipping triumphantly from the pile. “Then I found this,” Sam says. “It’s a class picture from 1981. The kid in the corner is the new foreign exchange student. Look familiar?”

Dean already knows, but he looks anyway. There, in the uppermost corner of the photo, stands a teenage boy wearing a long coat and staring fixedly into the camera. Even in black and white, Dean would know those eyes anywhere.

 

Dean makes Sam clean up all the paperwork – “It’s a fucking fire hazard,” he declares – and then sends him to bed. He lies in his own bed and listens to Sam tossing and turning through the thin wall that separates their rooms. Once Sam has been silent for ten solid minutes and Dean can be reasonably sure he’s asleep, he gets out of bed and opens his battered laptop.

He looks up the location of the neighbouring town’s police station, prints out a map, and then gets back in bed, praying he won’t dream about Castiel Nevaeh again.

 

Sam spends the next night at a friend’s sleepover birthday party, which Dean thinks is great for two reasons. First, it means Sam’s been able to have some semblance of normal friendship in this town. Secondly, it gives Dean the chance to go to Port Angeles without Sam knowing.

On the drive over, Dean tries not to think about Castiel, about why he’s hiding this trip from Sam, and this entire case from his dad. He tunes the radio to the first rock station he finds, and turns the volume up so loud it drowns out his thoughts.

He spends a few hours killing time in the library, but doesn’t turn up much more than Sam already had. When the sun goes down he packs up his books and climbs back into his red truck, parking it a few blocks from the police station.

It’s not easy breaking into a police station, but it’s something Dean’s done before, and Port Angeles isn’t exactly high-security. He makes it in without being seen, jimmies the filing cabinet open, grabs a few of the most recent cases Sam had tagged, and climbs out the open office window. 

He’s feeling pretty satisfied with himself after a solid night’s work, practically whistling on his way back to the truck, when he notices them. A group of three guys trailing behind him, and another two in the alley to his right.

It’s too late to duck out of the way, and all of the nearby shops are closed. He’s trapped, and – stupidly – unarmed at the moment; his pistol is in the truck’s glove box. Dean plants his feet, braces himself for a fight as the five guys, eerily silent, close in on him.

When they’re nearly close enough to touch he notices their eyes are all pure black, and a chill runs down his spine. 

Not one to freeze when he’s scared, Dean decides to strike first, punching the nearest guy in the nose. Dean’s hand hurts like a motherfucker, but the guy doesn’t even flinch. He grins at Dean.

“Winchester,” he hisses, and then he shoves, and Dean goes flying through the air, skidding to a stop on the damp, gravel-coated concrete. He sits up groggily, can feel the blood already dripping down the side of his face.

The black-eyed men – demons, he remembers reading in Dad’s journal – form a line and march toward him, and Dean just wishes he’d said something to Sam about where he’d been going, or at least said a proper goodbye.

“Stop,” says a commanding voice from behind them, low and gravelly and familiar. Dean’s stomach leaps with hope. “Unhand him.”

The demons turn to look at Castiel. Lit by the lane’s lone streetlight from behind, he seems to be glowing, ringed by golden light.

“What’s it to you?” one of the demons snarls, running at Castiel. Dean winces, but then Castiel puts out his hand, pressing it against the man’s forehead. His eyes and ears seem to radiate bright white light, and he screams before collapsing in a lifeless heap on the ground.

The other demons scatter, running in four different directions and forgetting about Dean entirely. Castiel moves, more quickly than Dean can fully register, and two of them meet the same fate as the first, decimated in a flash of bright white light. The other two make it around the corner and though Castiel could probably chase them down, he crouches next to Dean instead.

“Can you walk?” he asks urgently, and Dean nods, lets Castiel pull him to his feet. Castiel keeps a hold on his arm as they walk the final block to the truck, and then guides him none-too-gently into the passenger’s seat.

“I can drive,” Dean insists, but the drop of blood that splatters onto his jeans kind of weakens his point.

Castiel starts the car, swerving into traffic and ignoring the honking cars behind them. “I should go back there and kill them all,” Castiel says, barely-controlled rage simmering in his voice. He grips the steering wheel tight, pushing down too hard on the accelerator.

“Uh, no you shouldn’t,” Dean says. He’s seen enough action for one night.

“You don’t know the vile, repulsive things those monsters could do to you,” Castiel says, eyes still fixed on the road.

“And you do?” Dean asks. “You know all about monsters?”

Castiel falls silent. “I don’t want to talk about this now,” he says. “Put your seatbelt on.”

Dean laughs. “You put your seatbelt on!”

For some reason this makes Castiel smile, and then he abruptly pulls over, next to a tiny Italian restaurant, its windows lined with sparkling white string lights. They remind Dean of the light Castiel had filled, had _killed_ the demons with.

“Have you had dinner?” Castiel asks, and Dean, bewildered, shakes his head. “You should get something to eat,” Castiel says, a little too close to an order for Dean’s comfort.

Dean wants to say no, but he’s lost a fair bit of blood and hasn’t eaten since lunch so he’s not in much of a position to argue. He wipes the side of his face roughly with the sleeve of his coat to get as much of the blood off as he can.

“Don’t,” Castiel says, leaning in to examine Dean’s head. Dean holds his breath instinctively when Castiel touches him, but his fingers are cool and gentle, and the touch feels good. “Look, it’s stopped bleeding.”

Castiel pulls back and climbs out of the car. Dean follows, suddenly feeling much better.

Dean orders the beef and mushroom ravioli. Castiel doesn’t eat, which doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Dean, who hadn’t expected him to be hungry, at least not for anything on the menu. The waitress keeps giving them strange looks, and the other customers too, and at first Dean thinks he’s still got blood on his face. Then he realizes what this looks like, him and Castiel sitting together at the tiny table, Castiel staring at him so intently.

‘People are staring,” Dean says. “Because they think we’re two guys on a date or something.”

Castiel looks around, like he hadn’t noticed before. “Oh. I don’t care about any of that.”

“Neither do I,” Dean says quickly. He means it as a show of bravado, as a way of saying he doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him, that he’s not afraid of them. It’s not until after he says it that he realizes the statement could also be interpreted as meaning he doesn’t care whether or not he dates guys, which is decidedly not what he meant to say.

He wonders what Castiel meant.

“How did you know where I was?” Dean asks, filling the awkward silence that has sprung up between them.

“I didn’t,” Castiel says, and Dean pushes his chair back in frustration, gets up to leave.

Castiel looks stricken. “Don’t leave,” he says desperately. “I’m trying.”

Dean sits back down. “Did you follow me?” he asks. “Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t drive,” Castiel says. The buses from Forks stop running at five, Dean knows, so that’s another clue. Though to be honest, Dean is sort of losing track of his mission here. 

“I feel very _protective_ of you,” Castiel says, lowering his voice. “I was trying to keep my distance unless you needed my help, but then I saw what those demonic low-lifes were thinking and I had to interfere.”

“Wait,” Dean says, “you know what they are? You know they’re demons?”

Castiel hesitates. “I know far more about demons than you do, Dean Winchester. I know what your father does and where he is, and that he’s training you to be a hunter, and your brother too. I should avoid you like the plague, but I don’t have the strength to stay away from you anymore.”

“You don’t?” Dean asks, oddly breathless, he hopes from the concussion. He takes a huge bite of his ravioli so he doesn’t have to talk anymore.

The drive back to Forks is awkward. Dean’s not used to riding shotgun with anyone but his father, but Castiel won’t let him drive. They pass most of the ride in silence, until, eventually, Dean switches on the radio in desperation.

It’s the ten o’clock news update, and the lead story is the three bodies found less than an hour ago in the back streets of Port Angeles, cause of death still unknown. Dean leans his head against the cool glass of the window, and doesn’t say a word.

 

After Castiel drops him and his truck back at the house without even saying good night, it seems oddly quiet without Sam. Dean goes to the fridge and pulls out a cheap, off-brand cola, then sits on the lumpy couch. He pulls out the folded, and now seriously wrinkled files he’s had tucked away in his coat all evening.

The first two cases look like standard demon possessions, now that Dean knows what to look for. Bodies suddenly dropping dead from weeks-old bullet wounds to the heart and other impossible stuff like that. But the third case is different.

The crime scene photos are grainy and underexposed – obviously Port Angeles’ police department doesn’t have the most cutting edge technology – and Dean can understand how the cops missed it. But something about seeing Castiel glowing in front of that streetlight gave Dean an idea of what to look for, and it jumps out at him immediately.

On the pavement underneath the dead man’s limp body, stark black against the grey concrete, is the unmistakable outline of a set of enormous wings.

It only takes Dean ten minutes with the computer to figure it out. Bright white light, super-strength and speed, wings, animosity toward demons. When he goes to the bathroom mirror and finds his forehead and cheek completely unblemished, no sign of bruises or even a scratch, he’s not even surprised.

 

Castiel is waiting for him before school the next day, catching his eye across the parking lot. Dean knows better, knows he should phone his dad, maybe even pack up Sam and their things and hit the road. Instead, he gestures at Castiel to follow, and then sticks his hands into his coat pockets and marches across the green, green grass and into the forest.

It’s surprisingly dark in among the trees, and the air is dense and close. Dean tries not to jump at shadows, to imagine creatures hiding behind every tree.

“You’re impossibly fast and strong,” he says when he hears Castiel move in close behind him. “You hate demons. Your eyes change colour. You healed me with a single touch, and sometimes you speak like you’re from a different time. You never eat or drink anything; and when you die you leave behind traces of wings.”

Castiel is silent, though Dean can _feel_ him at his back.

“How old are you?” Dean asks. 

“This body is seventeen,” Castiel says.

“How long has _it_ been seventeen?” Dean counters.

“Awhile,” Castiel acknowledges. Dean can feel his breath on the back of his neck, and it makes him shiver. His chest feels tight and his lungs too small, like he’s suddenly trying to breathe underwater.

There is a _thing_ behind him, a thing that isn’t supposed to exist. This is the first time Dean has encountered something not in his father’s journal, something brand new and all his own. And it’s scary, yeah, but it’s also exhilarating.

“I know what you are,” Dean says, not turning around.

“Say it,” Castiel says, and it would sound like teasing but for the deadly seriousness in his voice. “Out loud. Say it.”

“You’re an angel,” Dean says. It would be funny if it didn’t feel so dangerous, like crossing a line he can never uncross.

“Are you afraid?” Castiel asks.

It seems like a simple question, but there’s something deeper to it. Buried inside it Dean feels other questions: _What are you going to do about it? Will you tell your father? Do you trust me?_

Dean has every reason to be afraid. He should pull his knife, run for safety, call his dad’s emergency number, get Sam out of this damn town because they’re clearly mixed up in something way bigger than what they’re used to, now.

But he doesn’t do any of that. “No,” he says defiantly. “You won’t hurt me.” He believes it, though he’s got no good reason to. 

Castiel catches hold of his arm roughly, and then Dean’s stomach lurches. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again he’s standing in the bright sunlight, at the very edge of a cliff. He stumbles back from the ledge, dizzy.

“Where are we?” he says, swallowing hard to keep from puking.

Castiel stands beside him, still gripping his arm. “Another time and another place,” he says. “You need to see what angels are capable of.”

“So did you teleport us here or something?” Dean’s stomach finally settles, and he looks around. The ground is bare and rocky all around them, not a single tree in sight. They’re definitely not in Forks anymore; Dean’s not even sure if they’re in North America.

“Something like that,” Castiel answers. “Now, look.”

Dean takes a few cautious steps forward toward the edge of the cliff. He hopes Castiel isn’t planning on pushing him to his death, because that would be pretty anticlimactic. The wind is cool at the edge, and it’s almost refreshing...until Dean looks down.

The valley below runs red with blood, bodies piled three deep on the rock. Some of them are still moving, their limbs flopping uselessly. Vultures circle overhead, and, now that Dean’s listening for it, he can hear low moans and cries for mercy echoing against the stone cliffs, bouncing up toward him.

Dean watches in horror as one woman – girl, really – struggles to her feet, limping badly. She wades through the other bodies, occasionally stumbling forward into them and coming up coated in even more blood. He fixates on this girl, the one sign of life in the nightmarish scene below.

But someone else is moving toward her now, impossibly fast, pushing through the sea of corpses with ease. His huge dark wings cast shadows in the blood.

Dean cries out, tries to warn the girl, who hasn’t noticed her pursuer. But she doesn’t hear him, of course, and soon the man descends on her, slitting her throat in one neat, efficient motion before moving on again, searching for more survivors. Now nothing moves except the vultures.

Bile rises in Dean’s throat and he steps back from the ledge, worried he might fall. He sits down hard, heart beating way to fast, and then twists his body to look at Castiel, who bends down and touches his arm again.

Suddenly they are back in the forest, and for the first time Dean is grateful for the moist air, for the shade, for the protection of the trees and the soft soil under his body. He gets unsteadily to his feet.

“What was that?” Dean asks.

“You humans call it the Great Flood,” Castiel answers. “But that’s metaphorical. God’s real punishment was much…messier. Angels are assassins and warriors, capable of indescribable destruction. I’m not a cherub from a storybook, Dean.”

Castiel moves to stand in a nearby clearing, well away from Dean. He slowly unfurls his black wings, casting long shadows on the ground. It makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat.

“This is what I am,” Castiel says. He doesn’t meet Dean’s gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean says, and it’s not his proudest moment, but he’s telling the truth. 

Dean has spent years hunting every possible variety of monster, but he’d never imagined anything like this. There’s a power radiating from Castiel that’s as old as time itself, that feels solid and permanent and _whole_. And to Dean, who’s spent most of his life swept up in his father’s mission, absolutely powerless, it’s utterly intoxicating.

“Beautiful?” Castiel scoffs. “These wings are the mark of a killer, Dean.” He slips behind a rock formation, darting between the trees, and Dean is forced to run to catch up with him.

“I’m a killer,” Castiel says, his voice dampened by the mist.

“I don’t believe that,” Dean says.

“Then you`re a fool,” Castiel says accusingly. “And a poor excuse for a hunter. I’m the world’s most dangerous predator, designed to kill.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. 

“I’ve killed people before.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Dean says, refusing to listen to the disapproving voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounds like his father.

“I’m supposed to help kill you. Or something like it, anyway.”

“I trust you.”

“Don’t.” Castiel’s words say one thing, but his pleading expression says another.

“I’m here. I trust you. I wouldn’t have walked alone into the forest if I didn’t,” Dean says, reaching up to touch Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel pulls back sharply, disappearing momentarily and then reappearing on a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree.

“My family, we’re different from others of our kind,” he says. “We’ve strayed from the mission. Conscientious objectors, you might call us. But _you_ being here is dangerous. It could change everything.”

“Is that why you hated me so much when we met?” Dean asks, moving to stand below Castiel, who crouches down on the branch so that their faces nearly touch.

“Yes, because I know that he wants you so badly…my boss, the one we’ve tried to walk away from. I’ll still be expected to turn you over to him.” Dean files this information away for later, but at the moment all he cares about is making sure Castiel doesn’t run from him.

“I know you won’t,” Dean says, reaching up to run a finger down the side of Castiel’s face. His skin is smooth and warm; it’s hard to believe he’s touching an _angel_.

Castiel jumps down from the branch, his usually stoic expression pained. Dean wants to follow him, but he’s getting tired of chasing. Instead, he leans against a moss-covered rock, and waits for Castiel to come back to him.

He does, bracing himself against the rock with one arm on either side of Dean’s body, a mere foot of space between their torsos. His gaze seems to bore into Dean’s soul, and it makes Dean feel too hot in his leather jacket, makes his breath hitch and his fingertips itch.

_Oh,_ Dean thinks, as Castiel leans forward and Dean wants to kiss him so badly he thinks he might explode. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Castiel orders, shattering the moment, and Dean really wants to punch him in his mesmerizing mouth.

“Now I’m afraid,” he says.

Castiel’s face falls, and he takes a minuscule step back. “Good.”

“I’m _not_ afraid of you,” Dean says. “I’m only afraid of losing you. I feel like you’re gonna disappear on me.”

Castiel smiles tightly. “Technically I could. But I won’t. I’ve waited millennia for you.”

Dean feels dizzy, grateful for the cool rock ledge behind him. He scrapes his palm against the sharp stone to make sure he’s not dreaming. Castiel reaches out, very slowly, and presses one palm against Dean’s jacket, over his heart.

“And so the predator fell in love with his prey,” he says softly.

It’s taking so much of his focus to keep breathing Dean almost doesn’t catch it.

“Hey,” he says teasingly. “Who’s the hunter and who’s the hunted in this scenario?”

“I guess we’ll have to call it even,” Castiel says, and then leans in to kiss him.

 

Dean only lets himself freak out later that night, after the dishes are done and Sam has stopped tossing and turning in the adjacent bedroom.

“Shit,” he whispers into his darkened room. “Jesus fucking Christ.” It feels good to hear his own voice; it grounds him.

Three things had become crystal clear to him over the course of the day. First, Castiel was an angel. Second, angels were vicious, terrifying mercenaries with a special interest in him. And third – and for some _fucking_ reason this feels like the most important part – making out with one of them had been pretty much the highlight of his life.

“I am so screwed,” he says into the night, before finally falling asleep.

 

 

Castiel is waiting beside his usual parking spot when they pull into school the next day. 

“What the hell?” Sam mutters, and Dean pretends not to hear because he hasn’t exactly figured out how to have this conversation yet.

Castiel pulls open Dean’s door for him, and Dean scowls. “You try to carry my books for me and I will break your nose,” he says.

“We both know you can’t hurt me,” Castiel jokes, dropping his voice, but he steps back from the car, giving Dean space.

“Hello Sam,” Castiel says, more loudly.

“Hey,” Sam says casually, raising a questioning eyebrow at Dean. 

Dean shakes his head. _Not now_. “See you after school, Sammy.”

Sam frowns, but throws his book bag over his shoulder and heads toward the school, throwing just one curious glance over his shoulder.

“I think he’s noticed something’s different, Cas,” Dean says, sarcastic.

“Maybe. Cas, am I?” Now it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs. “What? Are angels not allowed to have nicknames?”

“I don’t know,” Cas answers. “But I’m breaking all the rules now anyway. I like it.”

“Live life on the edge,” Dean says, trying to ignore everyone – including Cas’ “siblings” - staring as they head up the front steps.

Castiel – Cas - puts one hand on the small of Dean’s back, warm fingertips brushing the skin just under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt. “Maybe I’ll end up in Hell.”

 

 

Dean skips last period, and he and Cas sit in a small clearing in the forest, where no one is likely to find them. Cas sits cross-legged, looking appropriately perched, but Dean sprawls out on the grass. He doesn’t feel claustrophobic surrounded by trees anymore, not with Cas here. Dude could probably explode anything that attacked them with a snap of his fingers. It’s nice to be able to let his guard down.

Dean stretches out one leg, rests the toe of his sneaker experimentally on Cas’ knee. Cas doesn’t react, so Dean leaves it there.

“So you’re a few thousand years old,” he says. “And you and your brothers and sisters are all angels. You don’t age, so you leave this town whenever people get suspicious, coming back a generation or two later when no one’s likely to recognize you, and killing a bunch of demons.”

Ca looks up, startled. “You know about the demons?”

Dean nods, plucking out a piece of long grass and chewing on the end. “Sam’s been tracking a bunch of suspicious deaths. Possession victims, right?”

“Yes,” Cas answers. “Unfortunately by the time we exorcise the demon it is often too late for the human host.”

“And one of them was as angel. I saw the wings.”

Cas frowns. “Yes. He was acquaintance of ours, though not a friend.” There’s pain in his voice, so Dean changes the subject.

“You know normally,” Dean says, “I would call my dad right about now. Demons are his favourite.”

“Are you not going to?” Cas asks.

Dean lets himself fall back into the grass, staring up at the tiny patches of blue sky he can see through the trees. “I figure you guys have it covered. I mean, my dad’s good, but you guys are the demon-killing experts.”

Dean can hear the affection in Cas’ voice. “I do have a significant amount of practice,” he agrees, but then his voice goes serious again, “But angels aren’t always the good guys. You, especially, need to remember that.”

Dean twists his fingers through the grass, pulling so hard the blades dig into skin and almost hurt. “So you mentioned before. What does this have to do with me?”

“There’s a reason my siblings and I always come back to Forks. There’s a reason the demons come here, too. We’ve been waiting for someone, looking for signs in the stars or in the voices of our prophets that he’s finally arrived. We were reasonably certain he would arrive here, but less sure when. We had a few false starts.”

“Hey, what’s a few centuries?” Dean jokes. “But again, what does this have to do with me?”

The pause is long and awkward, even for Cas. When he finally speaks he’s using the same tone Dean had when he’d broken it to Sam that monsters were real. “It’s you, Dean. You’re the one we’ve been waiting for.”

Dean nearly inhales the blade of grass he’d been chewing, and has to sit up to cough it out of his throat. Cas leans forward, concerned, and Dean struggles to stop coughing in case he tries to give him the super-powered Heimlich maneuver or something. “What?” he finally gasps.

“You’re our righteous man, the one Michael’s been searching for. The others aren’t sure, but I can feel it. I knew from the first moment I saw you.”

Dean digs his fingertips into the soil; it feels like he needs to tie himself into the earth. “Michael. As in the angel. Cas, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Cas shakes his head, his expression grave. “Unfortunately, I’ve never been so certain about anything in all of my existence.”

“I take it Michael isn’t looking for someone to go bowling with?” Dean says.

Cas frowns. “No. I think he wants to _use_ you, though none of us are sure how, exactly. We don’t rank high enough to know the entire mission, and we haven’t been the most obedient of soldiers.”

“Because you don’t want to kill people anymore?”

“In a way. Michael’s mission is his only concern, and he doesn’t care how many humans he tramples along the way. My siblings and I grew tired of so much collateral damage. We support Heaven, yes, but we are also concerned about humanity. Michael has found our compassion…irritating.”

“So you’re not going to turn me over to him?”

Cas shakes his head. He wraps one hand possessively around the ankle Dean left in his lap. “It’s the last thing I would ever do, Dean. I don’t want to be a monster. I don’t want to be something you would hunt.”

“You’re not,” Dean says urgently. “I mean, even if I knew how to kill you I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “Though I’m a little surprised you didn’t at least try.”

“Well I didn’t want to make a scene in the cafeteria,” Dean says, sarcastic. He reaches forward to put a hand over Castiel’s, still wrapped around his ankle. “But if I had to kill an angel... One of the bad ones...”

Cas shakes his head. “There are others out there, and we run into them from time to time. But you won’t need to fight them; I won’t let them get close enough to you for it to be necessary.”

“But it’s possible?” Dean says. “You can die?”

Castiel ignores the question, sliding his hand forward from Dean’s ankle to his knee. He sits up on his knees, taller than Dean, who’s still leaning back on his elbows in the grass. He’s so close Dean can smell his scent – like electricity.

“Enough talk,” Cas says, and then he’s kissing Dean, hot and urgent and like he’s been waiting a thousand years for it, which may actually be true. Dean falls back into the soft grass and Castiel follows, pressing his body against Dean’s, and Dean forgets all about killing angels, lost in kissing one.

 

 

“I’m gonna take you to my place tomorrow,” Castiel says the next day, while Dean is in the driveway hosing off his truck.

Dean jumps about two feet in the air. “Holy shit, Cas, could you _act_ human. Stop popping out of thin air.”

“I apologize,” Cas says, and then casually reaches over and pops Dean’s dented driver’s side door back into place like it’s made of rubber.

Dean sighs. “Thanks. Uh, wait, like with your family? What if they don’t like me?”

Cas smiles. “So you’re worried not because you’ll be in a house full of angelic warriors, but because you think they won’t approve of you.”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t exactly do family well.”

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but then looks up at the house. Dean follows his gaze, and sees the curtains in Sam’s room twitch. 

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night,” Cas says, and then he turns and walks – awkwardly, like it’s not his preferred form of transportation – down the road.

Sam’s anger is palpable when Dean walks through the front door.

“So when did we become best friends with the time-travelling probably-murderer?” he asks casually, slamming two plates down on the table. “Or are you gonna tell me you’re still doing research?”

“Sam,” Dean says, gritting his teeth. “It’s not what you think. I’m not stupid, okay?”

Sam throws a random handful of cutlery on top of the plates and they make an unpleasant clattering noise. “Oh yeah. Because hanging out with the monster we haven’t identified yet and don’t know how to kill when we’re surrounded by mysterious deaths sounds like a totally _not_ stupid thing to do.”

“I know what I’m doing Sam,” Dean says, though he doesn’t.

“Give me the phone,” Sam says. “I’m gonna call Dad.”

“No,” Dean practically shouts, panic rising in his chest at the thought of what his father would do to Cas. Even without taking the whole making out with his son in meadows thing into consideration, his hunting philosophy is pretty clear-cut.

“What you’re doing isn’t safe!” Sam shouts back, voice cracking on the last word.

“And you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Dean bellows. “You’re just a little kid.”

Something breaks in Sam’s expression, and he carefully sets the glasses he’d been holding down on the table before turning for the stairs.

“Hey, pizza’s almost ready,” Dean says to Sam’s retreating back.

“I lost my appetite,” Sam calls back, before slamming his bedroom door.

 

 

Sam has dinner at a friend’s the next night, so Dean doesn’t even see him before Cas pulls up in his silver sports car. Dean, preoccupied, can’t bring himself to make small-talk, but Cas seems happy enough to drive in silence.

“Are you alright?” He finally asks. “We don’t need to do this now, if you’d rather not.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Dean says quickly. “I just had a fight with Sam last night.”

“About me,” Cas says, and it’s not a question. “Was he very angry?”

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Is he angry a lot?” Cas asks, and Dean has accompanied Dad on enough hunts to recognize fishing when he hears it.

“I guess. I mean, he’s a teenager. Why?”

“No reason. I was merely curious,” Cas says. It’s not a very convincing lie.

Cas’ house is enormous, all dark wood broken by huge panes of glass, like the world’s fanciest log cabin. If Dean was anyone else he might have been impressed, but truth is he’d be perfectly content living in his car, as long as it was the Impala.

“Nice digs,” he says.

“What did you expect? Fluffy white clouds?”

Dean smiles, and follows Cas into the front hall. He hears strange, operatic music growing louder as they walk.

“I told them not to do this,” Cas warns.

But yeah, all of Cas’ siblings are in the kitchen, cooking a meal for Dean even though they _don’t eat_. Dean eats it even though he’s technically already had dinner, because hey, free food! But they stare at him while he eats, which is pretty awkward. At least Cas sits beside him, his knee pressed against Dean’s under the table.

“This must be pretty bizarre for you,” Cas’ brother – Balthazar – says, and Dean suspects that accent is totally fake, because according to Cas they’ve all been living in the States for centuries.

“I guess,” Dean says, and takes a huge bite of lasagna so he doesn’t have to talk for awhile.

“I mean, not just the angel thing. You know Castiel could probably track down a female vessel, if that would be more comfortable for you.” His eyes twinkle, and it takes Dean a second to get it, and then all of his focus not to spit lasagna across the table.

“Balthazar,” Cas says sternly, and Balthazar laughs and punches him in the shoulder.

“What?” he says. “Humans are strange about these things. The kind of equipment you’ve got down under really seems to matter to them. You wouldn’t know about the art of love, of course, but trust the voice of experience.”

From across the room, Cas’ blonde sister – Rachel – scoffs. 

“Of course all of that was centuries ago. Now I’m strictly a one angel kind of guy,” Balthazar adds quickly, but he winks at Dean when he thinks his girlfriend’s not looking.

Dean swallows his food. “Uh, I think I’m okay with the vessel he’s got,” he says, nudging Cas’ knee with his, and really liking the tiny, secret smile that momentarily plays across his face.

“You’re not,” Rachel says, voice icy cold. “This isn’t okay at all.”

“Just ignore her,” Cas murmurs, apparently to Dean but loud enough so the whole room can hear. “I do.”

“Yeah,” Rachel snaps. “Let’s just keep pretending like this isn’t dangerous for all of us.”

“I would never tell anybody,” Dean breaks in, setting down his fork.

“She knows that,” a soft voice says from behind Dean. He turns to see the red-headed sister, Anna, walking into the room, hand-in-hand with Uriel. “Hi Dean. It’s not you, or your hunter father we’re worried about.”

“If Castiel is right and Michael wants him, we don’t have time to be indulging their little romance,” Rachel continues. “If he finds out we’ve been hiding the boy from him, the entire family will be implicated.”

“You want to turn him over then?” Cas says, voice soft but dangerous. “See how many innocent humans he slaughters as a side-effect of his war once he has his greatest weapon?”

“We could just kill him now,” Uriel says, matter of fact. “Scatter the pieces of his body across the globe. Would take Michael awhile to find all the parts and put him back together.”

An awkward silence descends on the room.

“Sorry,” Balthazar finally says. “Uriel is the newest member of our little team. This whole ‘valuing human life’ thing is still a little difficult for him.”

“It’s the most efficient solution,” Uriel says, without inflection.

“Right,” Cas says, standing up from the table. “Are you finished eating?” He continues without waiting for Dean’s answer. “I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.” He grabs Dean’s hand and pulls.

“I’ll see you soon,” Anna calls after him, like they’re best friends.

 

 

Castiel’s room is light and open, near the top of the house, and it’s full of really old looking books.

Dean is more interested in what’s missing. “No bed?” he asks.

“No,” Cas answers. “I don’t sleep.”

“Okay,” Dean says. It doesn’t even phase him, which says something about how weird the past week has been.

He wanders the room, letting his fingers trail across the sides of books. “You might want to try that closet,” Cas suggests, so Dean marches over and throws it open.

Weapons. All kind of weapons. Full of sharp points and leather straps and glimmering gems Dean doesn’t have names for. “Whoa,” he says. “This is so fucking cool.”

“I thought you’d like it,” Cas answers. “I’ve been collecting for quite awhile.”

“What’s your favourite?” Dean asks. He really hopes it isn’t something totally wimpy like a crossbow or something, because that would totally kill his buzz.

Cas steps up behind him and reaches across Dean’s body to pull a short silver knife off of one of the shelves. Though, actually, now that Dean sees it in the light it doesn’t look like ordinary silver at all.

“Is that all forged in one piece?” Dean asks, searching in vain for a seam or joint between the blade and the handle.

“Yes,” Cas answers. “It’s an angel sword – the only thing that can kill us. I’ve never used it.”

“It’s…kind of awesome,” Dean says, reaching out to touch it. Cas pulls it out of his reach and sets it back on the shelf.

“It’s very beautiful. I sincerely hope it remains just a decorative part of my collection.”

Dean hears the sadness in Cas’ voice, and abruptly closes the closet. “You know what?” he says. “Let’s both not think about killing things, for once in our lives.” He turns around so that he and Cas are face to face, practically mouth to mouth.

“What should we think about instead?” Cas whispers.

“Well, I was going to make a suggestion, but you don’t have a bed,” Dean whispers back, teasing.

“Wait right there,” Cas orders, and then he disappears, causing Dean to stumble forward a little. He hadn’t realized he’d been leaning against Cas.

He returns as abruptly as he’d disappeared, accompanied by a huge four-poster bed carved out of dark wood and piled high with blue and gold cushions.

Dean laughs out loud, and then can’t stop for a full minute.

“What?” Cas asks when Dean finally catches his breath. “What’s so funny?”

Dean thinks about the rickety mattress in the house they’ve been renting, about hundreds of shitty motel beds with scratchy sheets shared with his little brother, who kicks in his sleep.

“This isn’t real,” he says. “This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me.”

“It does now,” Cas answers sincerely, and Dean reaches out and grabs him by his shirt, pulling him toward the bed.

 

 

The next morning, Dean picks Sam up at his friend’s place, and then takes them to the diner for Saturday morning pancakes. Sam doesn’t seem pissed, exactly, but just quiet, thoughtful. For some reason that makes Dean even more nervous.

While Sam pours syrup onto his short stack, Dean clears his throat. “Hey listen, about the other night…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam interrupts. “You don’t trust me with whatever you’re working on. I get it.”

Sam sounds so much like Dean’s internal monologue whenever Dad leaves him behind on a hunt that he’s momentarily taken aback. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s just that I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Sam asks, putting down the syrup. He leans forward across the table, all anger forgotten.

“Uh, okay,” Dean drops his voice to a whisper. “It’s about Cas. I don’t think he’s all that bad, really.”

“But he’s a monster,” Sam says. A week ago Dean’s worldview was equally black and white.

“But maybe not all monsters are bad, Sam. Like, remember, checks and balances? Cas and his family aren’t killing people, they’re just doing cleanup after demons. Cas saved me from a group of them the other night.”

“You were attacked by demons and you didn’t tell me?” Sam is visibly upset, straining to keep his voice at a whisper.

“Shh,” Dean says. “I’m okay. Cas showed up just in time. Patched me up, too. Not a scratch on me.”

“So what is he, then?” Sam asks, going back to cutting his pancakes. “Some kind of witch doctor or something?”

“He’s an angel,” Dean says, watching Sam’s jaw drop. And while Sam’s stunned silence leaves him an opening, he decides to get the rest of it out too. “And also we’re kind of going out or whatever.”

Sam never does finish his pancakes.

 

 

“We’ve got a solid lead on their lair now, so it shouldn’t be more than a week. Two at the most. I know you can’t wait to get out of there.” The line is full of static; wherever Dad is the reception must be bad.

“I’m actually really liking Forks,” Dean interrupts.

“What?” Dad says.

“Forks is growing on me,” Dean repeats.

“You got yourself a girl, then?” Dad says knowingly.

Dean hesitates, then forces out a chuckle. “Uh, yeah,” he says. It’s nearly the truth.

“Of course,” Dad says. “I’m sure she’s real pretty Dean, but you know we can’t afford to get attached -”

Dean loses track of his Dad’s sentence when Castiel appears on the edge of his bed.

“Dad, can I talk to you later?” he says quickly.

“Just make sure you’re being safe -” Dad says, but Dean is already pressing the button to end the call.

“I didn’t say you could come in here,” Dean says, breathless.

“You left the window open,” Cas replies, like open windows are a common angelic invitation.

“Do you do that a lot?” Dean asks, remembering his recent, recurring dream.

“Well only since you moved in,” Cas answers, smiling slightly. “I like watching you sleep...it’s kind of fascinating to me.”

Dean doesn’t think anyone’s ever found him _fascinating_ before. He’s spent his entire life doing his best to fade into the background. And the thing about hunting is that even the people he helps save won’t want to remember him, will think of him as little as possible so they can forget about all the things that go bump in the night. Cas is the first person outside of his immediate family to ever really see him, to look at him on purpose and not wish he hadn’t afterward.

“I just want...could we try something?” Cas asks, brushing his thumb across Dean’s mouth. 

Dean nods. He reaches out and catches Cas’ wrist, pulls his hand back to his mouth. He presses a kiss to Cas’ palm, remembering the way he had destroyed demons with this same bare hand. Cas could do the same to him in a second, but he won’t. The danger and safety of it sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. He bites down, gently, on the soft flesh between Cas’ thumb and index finger.

Cas laughs, a warm, low sound. “You bite?” he says. He sounds...fascinated, and Dean grins at him, basking in the glow of the attention.

“I guess I do,” he says. “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” Cas answers, and it’s only mostly a joke. His hands shake slightly as he grips the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. Cas tosses the shirt somewhere, but Dean doesn’t see where it lands because he’s too busy pushing Cas’ coat off his shoulders, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt.

When Castiel moves further onto the bed, Dean scrambles back against the headboard accommodatingly. Cas leans over him, licking at Dean’s collarbone, their bodies pressed flush together, and Dean’s face goes hot. This is different than the other times. Alone in his quiet bedroom in the middle of the night, Cas’ touch feels more intentional. When they’d kissed before it had been aimless exploration, but now suddenly they have _trajectory._

Cas reaches down to unbutton Dean’s jeans, and yeah, _that’s_ definitely new. He exhales sharply, and Cas looks up, concerned.

“Are you...I can stop.” He pulls away from Dean like he’s been burned, and Dean misses his touch immediately.

“No,” he says, and rushes on when he sees Cas wince, “I mean, I don’t want you to stop. It’s just that Sam is right next door.”

“Oh,” Cas says with obvious relief. He presses in close again, his hands at Dean’s hips, and Dean bites back a moan. “The room is soundproof.”

“It’s really not,” Dean says, but even as he objects he lets Cas pull off his jeans. “I can hear him talk in his sleep sometimes.”

“You misunderstand,” Cas says, tugging off Dean’s boxers and then his own pants with surprising efficiency. “The room is soundproof _now_.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Perk of dating an angel?”

Cas makes a small affirmative noise, but Dean barely hears it because by now they’re both naked and he’s pretty damn distracted.

Cas pushes firmly on Dean’s shoulders until he sinks down onto the bed, flat on his back and just a little bit stunned. Cas uses one hand to pin Dean’s wrist against the mattress, and slides the other down his chest and torso before wrapping it around his cock.

His strokes are slower than Dean usually uses when he’s alone, and it’s absolutely perfect. He loves being underneath Cas, his wrist encircled by an angel’s iron grip, his body pinned. Weeks ago the idea of being held down by something inhuman was the stuff of his nightmares, but now, with Cas, surrender feels like safety. 

Dean groans and bucks up into his hand, relishing the way Cas pushes back, pushes down. His weight against Dean’s legs, his grip on Dean’s wrist feel like cover, like protection, like being anchored to one spot after a lifetime spent drifting. He closes his eyes, exhales hard, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, doesn’t worry about anything.

“Dean?” Cas says against his ear, without breaking his rhythm.

“Hm?” Dean says. He opens his eyes, but all there is to see is Cas’ pale throat, the line of his jaw.

“You said I could try something?” He tightens his grip slightly, and Dean makes a surprised, pleased sound.

“Yeah,” he manages to say, after a moment.

“Can I fuck you?” Cas whispers, right against his ear. The word sounds so dirty, so absolutely blasphemous from Cas’ mouth that Dean almost comes, biting his own cheek hard to hold off his orgasm.

“Jesus fucking Christ, yes,” Dean practically begs, loving the way he can see the vibrations in Cas’ throat when he laughs at Dean’s own blasphemy. “Wait, don’t we need something for -”

Cas releases Dean’s wrist, and then holds up a small plastic tube. “Perk of dating an angel,” he says with a small smile.

 

 

“Hey, so I’m hanging out with Cas tonight,” Dean says after school the next day. “Just going over to his place to hang out with his family.”

“That sounds totally and completely safe,” Sam snarks. “Not at all like walking into the lions’ den.”

“Sometimes danger is worth it, though,” Dean replies.

Sam considers this. “You really like him, don’t you?”

Dean nods. “Do you think I’d be going through this much trouble if I didn’t?”

“I’ve never seen you get, like, emotionally attached before,” Sam continues, looking at Dean like he’s a particularly interesting science experiment. “Does he make your knees go weak?” He shoots Dean a smarmy grin.

“Fuck you,” Dean responds, which isn’t his best comeback and probably gives away just how much truth there is in Sam’s accusation. 

A honk from outside distracts Sam from his next comment, no doubt a joke at Dean’s expense.

“That’ll be him,” Dean says, grabbing his wallet off the table.

“Hold on just a second,” Sam say quickly. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced.”

“You’ve seen him at school a bunch of times!”

“Introduce me to your boyfriend, Dean Winchester. Since we’re not telling Dad about any of this I’m the one who needs to give approval.”

“So you’re definitely not telling Dad?” Dean says hopefully.

“Not as long as I get to meet him. Maybe I’ll regret it later, but I kind of want to see how this you being in love thing plays out.”

“I am not in love,” Dean insists.

“Sure,” Sam agrees, too quickly. “Whatever you say. Bring him in!”

“Okay, but Sam? Be nice. He’s important to me.”

“Clearly,” Sam says. “I’ll be a total angel. Haha, get it? ‘Cause your boyfriend’s an angel.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and goes to open the front door, where Cas is already waiting. “Come in and meet my pain in the ass brother,” he says.

Sam stands and holds out his hand, which Cas shakes after a moment’s hesitation. The room fills with strained silence.

“You don’t _seem_ evil,” Sam finally says, eyes narrowed.

“Neither do you,” Cas replies, staring at Sam intently, like he’s searching for something.

“Okay, well this was awkward,” Dean says, interrupting their staring contest. “Let’s get going.” He grabs Cas by the corner of his coat and tugs.

“Don’t keep him out too late!” Sam calls after them. “Use a condom! Don’t get pregnant with like, fledglings or something!”

Dean slams the door as hard as he can behind him.

 

 

Somehow Dean had imagined angels doing something a little more badass than lawn bowling during their free time. Though he supposes the stakes are a bit higher when the game involves rolling massive boulders at your sister.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean snaps, once he figures out what Balthazar’s target is.

“Relax,” Cas answers, laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Anna’s the jack. The objective of the game is to roll the boulders as close to her as possible, without touching her. Whichever team gets the most rocks closest to her wins.”

“That is messed up,” Dean says, and Castiel just shrugs.

“It’s not like it would really hurt her anyway. Don’t spoil our fun. There’s a thunderstorm coming; it’s the only time we can play. You’ll see why.”

The game is loud and cringe-inducing. Balthazar declares Dean the umpire, but he’s not much help. The ground shakes as the huge stones roll across the huge open fields, and it’s all Dean can do to keep his balance.

“You did that on purpose!” Anna calls at Uriel, after she’s forced to leap over a particularly dead-on shot. Uriel’s answering smirk is the first time Dean’s ever seen him smile.

Rachel’s up next, and her stone hits a patch of brush and swerves violently left, toward the line of trees marking the field’s boundary.

“Out,” Dean calls, trying to make a contribution to the game.

Balthazar whoops with laughter, and Rachel glares at Dean like he’s personally responsible for growing the shrub that had gotten in her way.

“Babe, come on, it’s just a game,” Balthazar calls, but Rachel doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of sportsmanship.

“Stop!” Anna calls suddenly, the panic in her voice obvious. Dean thinks maybe she’s come to her senses and realized that playing the target in this game is fucking suicidal. “Angels are coming. They were leaving, but then they heard us.” Her eyes are glazed and strangely blank.

So it’s not about the game, then.

“Let’s go,” Castiel says, suddenly by Dean’s side. “Brace yourself.”

“It’s too late,” Balthazar says. “If you leave now they’ll feel it. They’ll follow you.”

“Maybe they won’t know it’s him,” Anna says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Stay close to me,” Cas orders. “Act natural.”

“Like that’ll work. He doesn’t exactly blend in,” Rachel snaps. But she stands next to Balthazar and Anna, already forming a united front against the other angels.

“I should never have brought you here, I’m sorry,” Cas says.

“What’s going on?” Dean demands, but everyone ignores him.

The three angels approach them, moving just slightly more quickly and slightly more gracefully than humans ever could. Two men stand on either side of the tall, dark-skinned woman Dean takes for their leader.

“It seems like you are having quite the game,” she says. “I am Raphael. And this is Gabriel, and Zachariah.” She indicates each of the men in turn.

“I’m Anna,” Anna says, stepping forward slightly. “This is my family.”

“Hello,” Raphael answers. “We noticed an increase in demon activity in the area recently. Have you made any progress locating the weapon?”

“No,” Anna answers. “And it doesn’t seem like the demons have found anything either. We have the area under surveillance and maintain a permanent residence nearby, however. We’ve no need of assistance.”

“That’s fine,” the one who’d called himself Gabriel says, looking anxious. “We’ll just pass on through.”

“But since we’re here,” Raphael says, “could you use three more players? Just one game?”

“Sure,” Anna says reluctantly, her voice strained. “Why not? A few of us were leaving and you can take their place. We’ll throw first.”

Gabriel and Raphael both turn to walk over to the pitch, but the one who hasn’t spoken yet – Zachariah – stands there for a moment, staring at Cas with suspicion.

“Come on, let’s go,” Cas says, reaching for Dean’s hand. He turns to leave a little too quickly, yanking Dean along behind him. Dean, still stiff with tension, stumbles slightly before catching his balance and righting himself.

It’s just human enough to give him away, not quite graceful enough to be angelic, and Zachariah notices.

“You have a pet,” he says loudly, clearly amused, and his friends turn back to them, game forgotten.

“A human?” Raphael says. “Whatever do you need one of those for?” Castiel’s hand goes painfully tight around Dean’s wrist.

“Possessive,” Zachariah comments. “Is there perhaps something special about this boy?” He narrows his eyes, calculating. “Yes, I believe I feel something. Have you found the one?”

Castiel’s family move too quickly for Dean’s eyes to register, forming a protective circle around them.

“The boy is with us,” Balthazar says. “I think it best if you leave.”

Raphael must recognize that five to three on the Nevaehs’ home turf doesn’t leave them with very good odds. “I can see the game is over,” she says, “We’ll go now. Zachariah,” she adds sharply, when the other angel hesitates.

Reluctantly, Zachariah turns his back on them. “This isn’t over,” he hisses over his shoulder, before following Raphael out of the field.

“Get Dean out of here,” Anna orders, shoving a petrified-looking Castiel in the shoulder. “Now.”

Castiel obeys his superior officer, catching Dean by the arm and practically dragging him back to his car. He opens the passenger’s side door, and tries to fasten Dean’s seatbelt for him once he climbs inside.

“Okay I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’m alright!” Dean yells, pushing Castiel’s hands away. “Fuck!”

Castiel climbs into the driver’s seat. “What, now he’s coming after me?” Dean asks, forcing down his rising sense of panic. He takes three deep breaths to steady his nerves, feeling his adrenaline activate his hunter’s instincts. 

Cas merely steps on the accelerator.

“Listen to me, I should have told you this before,” he says quickly, keeping his eyes on the road. “Zachariah is a tracker. Looking for you has been his obsession. This is what he’s been waiting for for thousands of years. He’s never going to stop.”

“Okay, so we have to kill him.” Dean says. He feels strangely calm; there’s a comforting sort of familiarity in being chased by something big, bad and terrifying. “Use your fancy knife.”

“No. Balthazar, Rachel, Uriel and Anna have to kill him. We have to run,” Cas says, making a particularly dangerous hairpin turn back onto the main road, speeding in the wrong direction.

“Where are we going?” Dean asks.

“Away from Forks. We’ll get a ferry to Vancouver –“

“I have to go home,” Dean interrupts. “Now. You have to take me home.”

“You can’t go home,” Cas retorts. “He’s just going to track you there. It’s the first place he’ll look.”

“My brother’s there!” Dean practically screams over the roaring of the car’s motor. 

“It doesn’t matter!” Cas yells back, voice so low Dean can feel vibrations in the air.

“Yes, it does,” he argues back, undeterred. “He could get killed because of us!”

Cas slams one fist against the steering wheel, exasperated. “That’s probably inevitable. Just let me get you out of here first,” he says.

“He’s my brother. We have to go back.” Dean’s mind races. “We’ll figure out a way to lead Zachariah away or something, I don’t know, but we have to do something. I’d rather die than leave Sam behind.”

 

 

Five minutes later, Dean bursts through the front door of the tumble-down house he’d almost – naively – started to think of as home.

“Sam! Sammy!” he screams, and his heart practically bursts with relief when Sam walks into the kitchen, barefoot, with a toothbrush in his mouth. He pulls out the toothbrush.

“What?” he says, spitting flecks of toothpaste foam.

“Grab your duffel. Pack your shit. We’re leaving. Now!” Dean orders. He sounds exactly like his father, he knows, but Sam seems to respond to that. The toothbrush clatters to the ground, and Sam tears up the stairs, throwing open the door to his room.

By the time Dean makes it to his own room Cas is already there, shoving his few belongings into the duffel bag he’d kept under the bed. It takes less than two minutes to round up all of Dean’s worldly possessions, and by the time he’s done Sam is waiting in the front hall, his own duffel bag over one shoulder and bookbag on the other. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see Cas.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you guys are just having a messy breakup or something?” Sam asks, without much hope.

Dean shakes his head. “The bad angels showed up. They’re after me. We’re running.” He heads out the front door, Sam on his heels and Cas bringing up the rear. They don’t even lock the door behind them.

“Do we call Dad?” Sam asks, climbing into the backseat of the truck, with their bags.

Dean, already in the driver’s seat and starting the engine, hesitates briefly. “Once we’ve put some distance between us and Forks, yeah. But I need to figure some stuff out first.” He pulls out of the driveway and turns toward the highway.

“We,” Sam interjects, “ _we_ need to figure some stuff out first. We’re in this together, Dean.”

Castiel appears in the passenger’s seat of the car. “That may be more than symbolic,” he announces.

Dean’s gotten used to Cas’ unexpected entrances, but Sam hasn’t. “Holy shit,” he says, then after a beat, “wait, what do you mean?”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Dean’s stomach twists. “Spit it out,” he commands.

“There’s a reason Forks was swarming with demons,” Cas begins. “A reason they keep an eye on it too.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I figured. They want to kill me before Michael can get his hands on me, his greatest weapon or whatever.”

“It’s not just that,” Castiel says, swallowing hard. “The prophecies that told us you were coming...they speak of two men. Two brothers, one light and one dark.”

Dean feels all the air evaporate out of his lungs. 

“One of them is to be Michael’s greatest weapon,” Cas continues, “and the other Lucifer’s. And once they’ve each found their chosen one, the great war will begin.” He recites the information like a well-worn nursery rhyme.

Dean glances in the rear-view mirror. Sam’s expression is unreadable.

“How could you not tell me this?” he snaps at Cas.

“I was hoping it wasn’t true,” Cas snaps back. “He doesn’t exactly seem like Satan’s secret weapon.”

Dean huffs, returning his attention to the road. He recognizes Cas’ silver sports car behind them. That must be Anna and Uriel. Balthazar and Rachel are supposed to be distracting Zachariah.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I was going to tell you once I was sure.”

“I’m not a fucking child, Cas,” Dean says, gritting his teeth. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“Hey guys,” Sam says, “if you’re done with your lover’s quarrel, can you tell me what’s supposed to happen next? Like, if the bad angels get us, what comes after that?”

Castiel sighs. “The great war will last one hundred years, and will engulf the whole of the world in flame and flood. Your bible has a word for it – Apocalypse.”

“Right,” Sam says matter-of-factly, “so stay away from the devil, then.”

 

 

Dean leaves the truck’s engine running when they get to Cas’ house, but Cas makes them come inside with him, refusing to leave Dean alone for ten seconds. It’s starting to get on Dean’s nerves.

He wishes they’d stayed in the truck though, when he notices one of the outsider angels waiting for them in the entrance-way.

“Wait,” Gabriel says, before Cas can attack, “I came to warn you, about Zachariah. I’ve grown tired of being under his command, and don’t look forward to the great war. I hope you are able to prevent – or at least delay – it. But you should know I’ve never seen anything like him in my three thousand years. Don’t underestimate him.”

Castiel nods.

“Is this the other vessel?” Gabriel asks.

The realization feels like being punched in the gut, but once it sinks in it makes so much sense Dean can’t believe he hadn’t put it together before.

“I’m Michael’s vessel,” Dean says. “And Sam is Lucifer’s.”

Gabriel nods. “They’re wearing you two to the prom.”

“Not if I can help it,” Cas growls. Gabriel shrugs, and then disappears.

Cas disappears for a moment, too, then reappears carrying the shining silver sword Dean had seen in his closet. He tucks it into a pocket of his coat. 

 

 

The rest of his family are waiting in the garage, collecting weapons of their own.

“I’ve fought our kind before,” Uriel says, “Not easy to kill, but not impossible. We’ll tear them apart.”

Anna looks troubled. “I don’t relish the thought of killing one of our own, even a war-mongerer like Zachariah.”

“What if he kills one of us first?” Rachel says, her voice dripping with bitterness.

“I’m going to run Sam and Dean south,” Castiel interrupts, “can you lead them away from here?”

“No Castiel,” Anna says. “He knows you won’t leave Dean. I’ll go with them. Uriel and I will take them south. I’ll keep him safe.”

Dean hadn’t even realized Cas was gripping his hand so tight it was cutting off his circulation, but when he lets go all the blood rushes back and his fingers tingle painfully. Anna puts an arm around Sam, who lets her lead him to one of the cars. Dean follows, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder at Cas.

“Rachel, Balthazar, can you try to summon Zachariah and Raphael? Slow them down so Dean has a chance to get away.”

“Why?” Rachel asks, leaning casually against a workbench. “What is he to me?”

“Rachel,” Anna says from the driver’s seat of the car. “Dean is with Castiel. He is part of this family now.” Her tone indicates complete unwillingness to put up with anyone’s bullshit. “And we protect our family.”

Dean’s seen enough families – including his own – torn up by monsters.

“If anything happens, I swear to god – “ he starts, as Cas leans into his open window.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Cas answers. “There are five of us and two of them. When everything is done I’m going to come and get you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, suddenly sick at the thought of explaining any of this to his father.

“Dean,” Cas says, cupping Dean’s cheek in one cool hand. “You are my life now.”

Dean can’t find a way to answer, so he leans up and kisses Cas on the mouth instead, hot and desperate like it could mean goodbye.

“Ew,” Sam says, as Anna steps on the accelerator and speeds off into the night.

 

 

“Hey Dad, it’s me again. Um. You must have let your phone die or something. We had to leave Forks, but everything’s okay. I’ll explain it later. Call me.” He hangs up after a moment of uncertain silence, and then lets his head fall back against the leather seat. 

The sun is beginning to come up over the horizon. Beside him Sam is asleep, drool pooling in the corner of his mouth. This is really just more of the same for him. If it didn’t feel so much like every single thing in Dean’s life had changed in the past two weeks, even he might be able to take some comfort in the familiar rumble of the highway beneath him.

In the front of the car, Anna and Uriel whisper quietly to one another, their fingers twisted together between the seats. It must be so easy for them to be together, Dean thinks bitterly, seeing as they’re the same species and everything. Now that there’s less adrenaline surging through his veins and he’s had nothing to do but stare out the window for twelve hours, Dean has had altogether too much time to think.

And what he’s concluded is that even if they make it through this mess – kill Zachariah and throw the angels off their tails – he and Sam are totally screwed. On top of that, it seems pretty damn unlikely he and Cas have any real future together. Between Cas’ overprotective family, the species difference, the looming Apocalypse, and John Winchester, Dean’s love life is pretty much dead in the water.

Anna pulls the car into a roadside motel – cheap, neon lights half burnt out – and Dean groans. He was an idiot to think his life would ever change.

 

 

Anna and Uriel slice open their palms and use their blood to paint bright red symbols on the door and windows of one of their two motel rooms, in some language Dean has never seen.

“What do they say?” Sam asks, carefully tracking their movements. Dean suspects he’s already memorizing the intricate lines of the symbols.

“It’s what they _do_ that matters, not what they say,” Uriel says brusquely. Dean gets the feeling he’s still thinking about how much easier it would be to obliterate Sam and Dean than to protect them.

Anna smiles at Sam kindly, but with pity. “They repel all angels, including us. Use them as a last resort. You just cut open your palm and press the blood into the center of the symbol. It will banish any nearby angel and buy you some time.”

Sam nods, walks over to the desk at one end of the room to grab the tiny pad of paper they always find inside. He begins to carefully sketch his own copy of the symbol.

Anna adds a finishing touch to the symbol on the bathroom’s window. “We’re in the room next door,” she says. “Yell if you need anything.”

Dean nods. He doesn’t blame Anna and Uriel for wanting some time alone, because that’s what he wants too. He sighs with relief when Uriel closes the door behind them. Just he and Sam alone in a shitty motel room. It would feel like safety if there weren’t blood dripping slowly down the walls.

Dean jumps when his phone vibrates in his back pocket. He checks the call display and then snaps it open, silently mouthing “Dad” in Sam’s direction.

“Hey Dad,” he says, keeping his voice as casual as he can manage. “I’m glad you got my message.”

“Dean, where are you?” Dad snaps, using his best drill sergeant voice.

“Calm down,” Dean says. 

“Dean!” The anger in his voice makes Dean wince.

“Everything’s fine. I’ll explain everything later.” The line crackles with static for a moment. “Dad, are you there?” Dean says, pressing the phone closer to his ear.

“It’s a nice car you have here,” croons a higher-pitched voice. “Though you should take care of it better. Did you know there are toys stuck in the ashtray? And chalk pentragrams under the hood, though those couldn’t protect your father from me, of course.” Zachariah sounds positively gleeful. 

“Don’t touch him!” Dean yells. “Don’t you dare -” On the bed, Sam’s eyes widen in alarm.

“You can still save him,” Zachariah interrupts calmly. “But you’re going to have to get away from your angel friends. You handle that.”

“Where should I meet you?” Dean says, without hesitation.

“How about you old hometown? Shall we say...Stull Cemetery, in Lawrence? And I’ll know if you bring anyone along. Dear old dad will pay the price for that mistake.”

Dean has given a lot of thought to how he would die, over the years, and dying in the place of someone he loves seems like a good way to go. He calculates quickly. Less than an hour’s drive. “Fine,” he says, and snaps the phone closed. 

Sam’s hands are curled into tight fists, and he holds his pen like he might hold a knife. “They’ve got Dad,” he says. His voice is strangely flat.

Dean nods. “I’m going to go get him, Sammy. But I can’t bring the angels.” He can already hear them moving next door.

“I’ll handle it,” Sam says quickly. He can hear them too.

“I’ll come back for you,” Dean says.

“I know,” Sam answers.

Anna throws the door to their motel room open. “Are you alright?’ she says breathlessly. “We heard yelling.”

“We’re fine,” Dean answers, tucking his probably useless gun into his belt. “There’s just something I need to do. Alone.”

Anna shakes her head, and reaches for Dean’s arm. He has the feeling if she catches him she’ll never let him out of her sight again, and Uriel is right behind her.

“Hey,” Sam says suddenly, from beside the window. Dean looks over to see his brother’s hand dripping with blood, slashed open with the pen he’d been holding. Then he slams his palm against window, dead in the centre of the elaborate symbol painted there.

The room fills with bright white light. Dean squeezes his eyes closed involuntarily, and when he opens them again both angels are gone.

“Wow,” Sam says, eyes wide. He presses his bleeding palm to his mouth.

“Thanks,” Dean says, still blinking away bright shapes floating in front of his eyelids. He has no idea how much time they have before the angels come back. “I’m gonna go get Dad.”

“Yep,” Sam says. “Go quick. I’ll try that again if they come back looking for you.”

Dean takes one last look around the room before he leaves. “And Sam - ,” he says over his shoulder. 

“I know,” Sam says. “I’ll stay away from the devil.”

 

 

Stull Cemetery looks deserted to Dean, like no one has even visited in months. The only flowers on the graves are dried up husks of their former selves. The grass is yellow and brown with only the occasional spot of green, and Dean longs suddenly for the lush green forests of Forks.

“Dad!” Dean shouts, hand on his pistol. “Dad?”

“Dean!” Dad calls back, but when Dean looks it’s not his father standing there but Zachariah, wearing a perfectly pressed suit and speaking in his father’s voice. “I’m very disappointed in you, son,” he says, still in John Winchester’s voice, “for falling into a trap so easily.”

“Stop it, you son of a bitch!” Dean screams. He pulls the pistol out of his belt and fires, hitting Zachariah square in the chest.

He didn’t really expect it to work. 

“Ow,” Zachariah says, in his own voice at least. “That smarts.”

“My dad’s not even here,” Dean says.

“Sorry,” Zachariah chants in a sing-song voice. “You really did make it too easy. Your father’s still off hunting werewolves somewhere, I imagine.”

“What do you want from me?” Dean asks, stalling for time. He looks over his shoulder, but he’s got nowhere to run.

“All I want is for you to say one little word. Just give my dear brother Michael your consent to be his vessel, and you can be on your way.”

“Yeah, until he decides to use me to blow up the planet,” Dean replies. “My answer is no.”

“What a pity,” Zachariah says with an exaggerated pout. “I guess I’ll have to _make_ you say it, and that will break poor Castiel’s little heart.”

“Cas has _nothing_ to do with this!” Dean screams. The last thing he wants to do is bring down the wrath of Heaven on Cas and his family, just because they tried to help him.

Zachariah shrugs. “He makes this a lot more…fun.” His mouth twists into a sadistic smile.

Dean takes three quick steps back, ducking behind a marble statue, a stone angel with her wings spread wide. Zachariah snaps his fingers and the head explodes. Dean tries to use the distraction as cover, sprinting toward the car he’d hotwired to get here, but he doesn’t even make it halfway there.

An invisible force slams into Dean’s body, knocking the air out of his lungs and sweeping him off his feet. He hits the ground hard, skidding along the grass until he slams into a gravestone, bashing his head against the stone. Pain radiates through his skull and for a moment the world goes black.

When his vision returns, Zachariah is standing over him. “Just say yes, Dean. It’s that easy.”

“No,” Dean says through gritted teeth. Zachariah reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a short silver sword, familiar to Dean because it’s identical to the one he’d seen in Cas’ closet.

“This is meant to be used on angels,” Zachariah muses, “but it does just as well with humans.”

Dean barely even feels the sword digging into the skin of his wrist, but he feels it being pulled out, white hot and burning. He bites through his lip trying not to scream, and tastes blood. Blood on his wrists, blood dripping down his temple, blood in his mouth. Blood everywhere.

“Just say yes, Dean. All you have to say is that one tiny word and all this will be over.”

Dean opens his mouth. His tongue feels thick and his lip is swollen, but he manages to spit out the words with a mouthful of even more blood. “Fuck you.”

Something more than annoyance – defeat? – flashes across Zachariah’s face, but then he strikes, slamming a fist down so hard on Dean’s knee that he hears a crunching noise before he feels the break, pain ripping through his entire leg and up his spine. 

And then Cas is there, appearing out of nowhere and slamming against Zachariah, sending them both flying through the air. They land on their feet, perched like cats ready to pounce. Castiel pulls his angel blade out of his trench coat. It is the exact twin of Zachariah’s, except Zachariah’s is dripping with Dean’s blood.

They fight. It’s too fast for Dean to really see, especially with a head injury. The world blurs alarmingly before his eyes, and he can’t watch the angels fight anymore, can’t bear to see if Cas loses. His head is very heavy, and he lets it drop. The yellow grass is stained red with blood from his wrists, a pool of blood rapidly growing larger.

The sky suddenly fills with white light. Dean closes his bloodshot eyes against it, and it feels good. If he keeps his eyes closed he won’t have to see who the victor was, see which angel is left standing. If he keeps his eyes closed he won’t have to see Castiel dead. Maybe if he just goes to sleep…

“Dean,” says a low, concerned, wonderfully familiar voice, but Dean can’t open his eyes and then he can’t hear anymore, either.

 

 

When Dean wakes up everything is white, from the walls to the sheets to the beeping machines next to his bed. Hospital.

He turns his head carefully, expecting one mother of a headache, but all he feels is mild stiffness. He slowly lifts his hand to his face, and aside from the IV the skin on his wrist is completely unbroken, not even the ghost of a scar.

“All your fingers and toes are present,” says a deep voice from his left, and Dean has never been happier to hear his father, “I checked.”

“Dad?” Dean asks. His mouth feels very dry. “Where’s Cas? Did he –“

“He’s asleep,” Dad answers, and gestures to the far side of the room. “He never leaves. Nice guy, though a little young to be hunting on his own.”

He sits up slightly to look at Castiel, who is slumped in an armchair next to the hospital bed, his chest rising and falling in what Dean can only assume is feigned sleep.

“And Sam’s down in the cafeteria,” Dad adds, anticipating Dean’s next question.

“What happened?” Dean asks.

“Well those demons that nabbed you, they broke your leg. Could have been much worse though. What were you thinking, joining a hunt? You’re lucky Cas here was with you, though, or things could have been much worse. He brought you to the hospital after the exorcism, called Sam who called me. Good hunter.”

“Nice of him,” Dean says, still hoarse. 

“But the doctors say it’s a clean break, should heal up real quick. We’ll be on the road again before you know it.”

Dean’s heart jumps in his throat. “You mean you caught the werewolves. We’re not going back to Forks?”

“Billy can handle it on his own from here,” Dad says. “There’s no sense us going all the way back up there. Might as well move on to the next case.”

Dean tries to calm his racing heart. “Uh, Dad, could you go get Sam? I need to talk to him.”

“Sure thing,” Dad says, patting Dean’s good leg in a way he probably means as reassuring as he goes. Dean does not feel reassured.

Cas opens his eyes the moment Dad closes the door behind him, rushing to Dean’s bedside. He takes Dean’s IV-less hand in his.

“What happened to Zachariah? Did you –“

“I took care of it,” Cas answers. “But Raphael escaped, and he’ll go to Michael.”

“I’m alive because of you,” Dean says.

“You’re in here because of me. I was supposed to protect you.”

Dean doesn’t have time for this argument. “My dad wants to hit the road again, did you hear that? No one will be able to protect us then – me and Sam.”

“I’m here,” Cas says. “Where else am I gonna go?” He kisses Dean’s forehead, then touches it with two fingers, and Dean falls asleep.

 

 

Cas isn’t there when Dean next wakes up – he can only keep up the concerned fellow hunter disguise for so long – but comes back the moment the nurse finishes her evening visit.

“I hate hospitals,” Dean mutters.

“Where would you rather be?” Cas asks, and the answer is easy.

 

 

They sit together under the stars, on the hood of the Impala in a nearly empty motel parking lot near the hospital.

“I think you might be underestimating my abilities,” Cas says, frowning.

“This is exactly where I want to be,” Dean answers. He lets his head fall back against Castiel’s chest, lets Cas support his entire weight.

“You know Forks High is having their prom right now. You don’t want to be there?” Cas huffs with laughter at the idea, and his breath is warm against Dean’s skin.

“I _do_ look damn good in a tux,” Dean admits. “Though I couldn’t do much dancing with a bum leg. What’s with that, by the way?”

“Hm?” Castiel says, his lips brushing against Dean’s earlobe.

Dean frowns at the cast on his left leg. “I assume you fixed my head. And my slit wrist. But you couldn’t manage a broken leg?”

“I could have, but I wanted to keep you in one place for at least a couple of days. So I could be sure I’d see you again.”

“That’s kind of desperate, you know,” Dean teases.

“You make me kind of desperate,” Cas agrees. He kisses the side of Dean’s throat, and Dean shivers.

“We are totally fucking screwed, you know,” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, kissing his throat again.

“There are sadistic, obsessive angels hunting down my kid brother and I so they can use our bodies to fight a war that may wipe out the entire human race.”

“Also correct,” Cas agrees. He bites down gently on Dean’s collarbone.

“And I also have to deal with my dad.”

“That is the most terrifying thing of all,” Cas says. He licks across Dean’s jaw.

“All very serious problems.”

“Very.”

“So maybe making out shouldn’t be our first priority?”

“Silly mortal,” Cas says, kissing a careful line up Dean’s throat until he’s hovering above Dean’s mouth. “You’re dying already. Every second, you get closer. Older. We don’t have a moment to waste.”

He kisses Dean, and Dean kisses him back. 

Everything else can wait, for now.


End file.
